Weird Shorts | Page 8

a street that would lead it back to the main highway.
When the car was out of sight, Andrea and the old black dude returned to the picnic table.
"The protection lines made those men think that this isn't a good neighborhood to rob," she stated rather than asked.
"Yes, little Missy, that's right."
"Then does that mean we'll never be robbed? Because of the protection threads?"
"No, you can't change fate. And nothing can stop a really determined burglar, but the lines can decrease the probability of robbery and other bad things."
"You know, you never told me your name," said Andrea as she bit a tiny piece of chocolate from her cookie.
"What do you call me to yourself?"
Andrea's face burned, and she looked down at her hands as she mumbled, "The old black dude."
When she didn't hear any response, she peeked up at him through her eyelashes and saw a wide grin on his face.
"Well, little Missy, that's who I am."
Chapter 5.
Rhyme
Poetry.
Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.
Albert Einstein
CLOCK
Numbers bleed as I attempt to discern the time.
A dog barks in the distance and I contemplate
A ligature for the hemorrhage.
My head is full and yet, they are only numbers.
Why can't they be there for me?
They aren't as real as I am and still?I have no
Control.
EXPLANATION OF ME
They say my face is angry and mean.
When I'm tired, I look mad.
Without a smile, I look sad.
In my mind
There's a hint
Of a once stoic grin
That in reality
Has never crossed my lips.
The stoic was for him.
The grin was for me.
I am older and happier now.
My mind is mostly well.
But my lips and eyes have memorized
A life once spent in Hell.
NUMBERS
Numbers meld together, As I obsess on this thing called, Time.
It's at this ocular junction, That I fantasize.
Is it mental heat, That keeps me marking time?
Or is it, Something else?
Some dark place, In my mind.
To separate those numbers, The forest from the leaves, I refer to my fever, To act, And be my sieve.
Show me mercy. Show me shapes.
Take me to, Another place.
But, please, Give relief, Lest I labor, Needlessly.
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WINDOW
The glass is tinted.
You don't see me.
I see you.
I smell your smoke.
I feel the cold that envelopes us.
I wish we had brought coats, today.
I wish we could get our shopping over with.
I wonder, "Could someone please close this door?"
THEM
I hear THEM. THEY sing my name, I hear THEM, From the corner of my room. THEY think I'm paranoid. I think THEY'RE loud.
TICKING
Aware of the pain I cause myself, I place an audibly Ticking watch to my ear. The sound of his voice warrants this motion. A reply warrants this motion. A statement warrants this motion. Otherwise meaningless chatter warrant this motion. I study his face And I listen to the ticking I gaze into his eyes And I listen to the ticking I watch his lips move And I listen to the ticking I obsess on his Southern accent, big ears, Weathered lips and deep, sincere voice. It is time to leave and I place my watch to my ear. I know that I have seven days to spend with him. Seven ticking days. I know that when those seven days are done, All I'll have is the sound, The sound of my ticking watch.
TIMEX
It ran on human blood, And when the owner died, They buried it, With him. They didn't have a choice.
Chapter 6.
Real Life
I understand that, "Funeral Dog," is not an uncommon occurrence, but, "Prehistoric hare," was a real challenge to figure out. I later learned that my experience was a mere bleed-through.
Illusions commend themselves to us because they save us pain and allow us to enjoy pleasure instead. We must therefore accept it without complaint when they sometimes collide with a bit of reality against which they are dashed to pieces.
Sigmund Freud
FUNERAL DOG
I had gotten out of bed late that day. Great! Late for a funeral! I showered and dressed in a hurried manner and hauled myself to the funeral of a man, who had died at another man's funeral. I had been in attendance at that funeral, also.
It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon. It was the kind of afternoon that I'd much rather have gotten up three, if not four hours later than the time that I actually had gotten up! Then, I'd do some shopping, maybe hang out at the library for a bit and retire for the evening with some movies that I'd picked up during my jaunt. But, this was not one of those days. This was a day of finality.
As I drove to the funeral home, I noticed that I was dissociating more than usual. Staying focused on my driving was a particular challenge. It was much easier to think about any and every other bit of minutia that crossed my busy mind. I even